


Standing With You

by Sapphire09



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: I dunno if this counts as reincarnation, I've been reading too many isekai alright, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, does this count as isekai au?, repeat life au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27099934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphire09/pseuds/Sapphire09
Summary: Cornflower eyes opened to the sight of a dark wooden ceiling full of holes. He noted the holes absently, a familiar sight he equated to his life while still on the road, wondering where he is. The last he remembered was the tall ceiling of his Oxenfurt chamber.He also remembered the pain.Weird, how the afterlife looks like the room of an inn.------Jaskier remembers being dead. That doesn't explain why he wakes up looking like he was fresh from the Oxenfurt graduating class instead of the handsome, distinguished professor he actually is.Nothing is making much sense, honestly. He just hopes he's not just going completely crazy first before figuring anything about what the fuck happened, or is happening.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 141





	1. Turn Back Time (1)

Jaskier tried to keep his eyes open, but it took too much strength for him to keep his eyelids from closing. The world was a blur, he himself felt like there was no part of him free of pain. The memory of what had happened that led him to having blood filling up his lungs instead of air he so desperately needed was fading away, along with his clarity. He could taste the blood on his tongue and he knew he wouldn't have long left.

There was movement at the edge of his hazy vision. Then, there was a streak of white and a face he couldn't really see. Someone was calling his name, moving his paralyzed body, and though his memory was failing him now, he knew by voice, by the feeling that voice invoked, that this person was important.

Loved.

A name flashed in his mind, as well as a hurt that wasn't because of the gaping wound on his chest. There was a sorrowful melody that he couldn't sing as well as absent confusion that wondered why this loved person was here as he lay drowning.

But, there was no time for questions or curiosity. He is dying, drowning in his own blood, the taste of his own life in his throat, on his tongue. In pain and deprived of air, choking him the more he tried to fight it.

There was no fighting it.

' _O_ _h_ ,’ he thought, as the world around him started fading around the edges. He could hear someone yelling through the rush of blood and the deadly peace. He thought the word might be his name, but there was nothing he could do and a thought settled in his mind, like a numbing agent as even his pain fades away.

_'Does this still count as your blessing?'_

* * *

_'Please,_ **_please—'_ **

_'—_ _a price. —careful of your wish, Mutant.'_

 _'—ve anything._ **_Please.'_ **

_'_ **_Very well.'_ **

* * *

****Cornflower eyes opened to the sight of a dark wooden ceiling full of holes. He noted the holes absently, a familiar sight he equated to his life while still on the road, wondering where he is. The last he remembered was the tall ceiling of his Oxenfurt chamber.

He also remembered the pain.

Weird, how the afterlife looks like the room of an inn.

_An inn?_

He sat up quickly. His hands pressed against his chest, his shirt (sleeping shirt? Why is he in his sleeping shirt? He wasn't in his sleeping shirt, not _this_ kind of shirt, for _years_ ) devoid of any holes or blood. Pristine (somewhat) white, with only a bit of greying and yellow stains made by age and time, that he always easily hid under his usual doublets.

 _A dream?_ He thought, somewhat a bit hysterically. He could still taste the blood on his tongue, feel the phantom pain in his chest, still burning and he was convinced the hole was still there even though his hand can't find the open wound, neither could his eyes.

But, if this is not the afterlife, if he is still _alive,_ then… That's good, right?

It was too real. Too vivid. How could it be a dream?

 _A prophetic dream?_

He snorted to himself. The idea of him, _him,_ having a _prophetic_ anything was laughable. He's just a bard of no importance, a measly human with nothing special besides for the song he makes. He is not one to have prophetic dreams, not him.

(He isn't someone Destiny put special interest to, besides as a spectator to Her favorites. Used to, anyway.)

And then there was Geralt, in that nightmare. Or, at least, an impression of him. He can't really remember. Still, if it was prophetic, then how could he be there?

Maybe it really was simply a nightmare, just his needy brain manifesting his wish to be someone special in Geralt's eyes, wanting to be mourned by someone he loved in his twilight years. And then his sense of dramatics wouldn't even allow his subconscious to die a peaceful death of old age. It had to be gruesome, tragic, a thing fit for a Ballad. 

A foolish nightmare, to be murdered by…

(...huh. He couldn't remember why—)

But _fuck,_ it felt so _real,_ as if he actually _died._ He could still the phantom taste of blood on his tongue, the burning pain of having hing lungs, his chest, pierced. He could feel the phantom feeling of being drowned by his own blood.

Perhaps, it was his gift of imagination that cursed him this time.

Yeah, maybe that's it.

No, that is it. It was just a dream. _Get it together, Jaskier._

How pathetic must he be, to still long for the White Wolf's heart, that his head had to make up such a tragic scenario in his dream? The only way even his subconscious could picture Geralt actually caring for him, with blood on his tongue and a hole in his chest, one foot at the other side of death's door with another edged to follow.

Jaskier shook his head hard, trying to dislodge the memory out of his brain and shook off the phantom pain. He immediately went to stand up and moved away from the bed, trying to find distraction in his quaint little room (where is he anyway? Surely, the memory will come to him soon? The nightmare must've jumbled his brain something fierce—) to take his mind away from his morbid dream. 

There was a bowl of lukewarm water on the dresser with a mirror right above it, right across from the bed. He couldn't remember if he asked for it last night (or what even last night entails, how he even ended up in an inn when he was quite sure he should've been within Oxenfurt's walls), but he was grateful it was there. He quickly washed his face with it, feeling more awake and refreshed with fresh water running down the skin of his face.

He let out a sigh, feeling tired despite having just woken up. _Such a weird, morbid dream_ , he thought. 

He looked up and blinked, and stared back at his reflection on the mirror, and blinked again.

And _blinked,_ again.

The wet face staring back at him was his face, no doubt about that. He knew how he looked and he prided himself for having such youthful visage. He aged well, like fine wine, he would even brag. Still, he may look young for his age, but not _this_ young.

He looked like a teen, fresh-faced and somewhat.... _Awkward_. Something about his face was still in that strange phase of shedding away the child fat but not quite yet an adult. Also, he was sure he hasn't looked like this since, well…. Since he passed his 22nd birthday, probably. The youngest he could pass lately was early thirty-something, late twenties in some region perhaps, with some light make-up and good lighting.

And, he's pretty sure he'd counted his wrinkles, the crows feet and the laugh lines, and now the face he's staring at is devoid of any of those, _how—_

(He was in a room of an inn when he's supposed to be in his chamber in Oxenfurt and he hasn't stayed in an inn for—oh fuck, a decade or so, now?)

(There was a smoothness to his fingers, devoid of the light scars he'd gained in his years on the road, not even the slightly deeper one he got from accidentally cutting himself on a silver blade, a few years into his travel with a certain Witcher.)

(He looked fucking 16 _—or_ _18?_ Young, too fucking _young—_ )

Jaskier is a bard, an artist and a poet. Imagination is his forte, and right now his imagination takes him to somewhat unwanted places. There are a lot of scenarios that might explain his current condition.

  1. He's hallucinating. A very extensive hallucination that likely caused by a sorcerer-or sorceress. Perhaps he was captured, and his nightmare was a—warning? A glimpse of the real world? That he's still dying and—he has no idea for what purpose he was put into the hallucination, but who knows how madness thinks.
  2. He's dying and he's in his own memory and this isn't a deliberate hallucination made by any witchiness, just something everyone who is actually dying or dead go through. Morbid, but probably the best scenario he has.
  3. He just dreamt the entire two and a half decades, almost three, of his life— _fuck_ , therein lies insanity and he hopes this isn't it.
  4. ...time travel?



Jaskier scoffed at himself on the last one. Not that any other three were preferable, but he also couldn't think of any reason why anyone would go through the trouble of misplacing _him_ in time. He's a _bard._ He's more useful in the present, telling _stories_ of the past. Not _being_ in the _past_.

Also, time travel wouldn't explain the nightmare. Why would someone send him back in time if he was on his dying breath? Seemed like an act of futility and too much work for someone that wanted him gone. Of course, unless the nightmare meant nothing and he's just having some kind of amnesia about what happened.

Or maybe his life in Oxenfurt (or the decades before, the years he’d spent by _his_ side) was the dream? And since he died in the dream, now he's back to reality?

(.....Fuck. Shit. Fucking _cock_ . He'll have to stop contemplating that particular scenario, or he'll actually go _insane_.)

"Fuck," he muttered out. The word was packed with so much feeling and that panicky sensation that made him want to _scream_ . Everything is just too _fucking_ confusing.

Damn it. It's still so fucking early in the morning, too.

* * *

The time travel theory seems to be more and more plausible, especially once he inspected his belongings—his old satchel he had definitely used to its dying thread even before he met a certain infuriating, golden-eyed, brooding man. Then, there's the no-longer-in-fashion doublet that had been pretty much destroyed just within a few months of travel upon meeting a certain white-haired, sad sack of a fucking snowman.

Also, the old cheap lute. Not the one he had used for over three decades, sturdy, loved and elven-made, with light scratches from the time a former lover had used it to hit him over the head, also from the decades it had been through with him on the road. This is an old lute barely worth whatever coin he had paid and still the most expensive thing he had owned, and one he remembered being destroyed to splinters in the hands of the elves before they gifted him with his most priceless possession.

“Fuck,” he muttered out, with feeling. He still hopes it isn’t time travel, but just a very convincing hallucination, taken from his old memory to make this scene. He has no idea what is the point of it, but he figured he would have a better chance finding his way out of a hallucination than time travel.

Setting aside the cheap lute, he grabbed his clothes (a plain thing that barely looked good and barely even in fashion, even when he got it) to change into. Putting it on is somewhat painful, if Jaskier was to be honest. But, not like he has any other clothes either. His sensibility must bear with it. He'll get better clothes lat—

...not with an empty coin pouch, unfortunately.

Jaskier sighed. He hasn't been this broke since he lived his life away sequestered in Oxenfurt, what's with having a stable income and revenue from being a professor, added to his royalties from his songs and books. Not to mention his side-jobs. Even while being on the road with a brooding sack with the emotional quotient of a brick for company, they always had some coin between them, if only just enough for their lodging and a couple of meals. 

His coin pouch right now is entirely empty, nothing there for even a loaf of stale bread. The last time he remembered being this broke was in the beginning of his travels, up until his _Toss a Coin_ song started to hit off along the Continent and he started to gain more fame, and thus, better acknowledgements in the inns he passed and more commissions and invites to better-paying events. It's not the end of the world, he knew he would manage, somehow. But, it really had been a long while since he'd been in this state of poverty.

_Fuck, is he seriously in the past?_

( _Why_?)

 _(If he's really in the past, what does that mean for present Jaskier, then? The future?_ His _future?)_

For the lack of anything else better to do and an increasing headache, he decided to throw caution into the wind and tried to appease his growling stomach instead. He grabbed the old lute out of habit, not really knowing if he would use it. Still, he might need it, if only to bash someone’s head in, like whoever’s head threw him into this hallucination he still couldn't see any point of. Whatever was happening, whatever might have happened, surely he can figure out more after eating.

Well, he did hope if this is a hallucination, it still would mean he can get breakfast of sorts, because he is starving.

When he arrived at the tavern area, there was something familiar about the space that niggled somewhere in the back of his memory. Though, he notched it as the way most taverns and inns could come across similarly. Besides, considering the literal decades he'd had walked beside a certain Witcher, travelling across the continent, he probably had been here, once.

Hell, if it was time travel, then he probably _was_ here, once. Or, if it was hallucination, this tavern would've been taken from his memory, so of course it would be familiar.

Once he approached the man behind the bar, Jaskier noted there is something about the man that is familiar. Like he had seen him before, in some distinct past. He can't remember when or where, but he knew he'd met the man before. Again, not much of a clue considering everything does feel somewhat familiar.

_(...Please, let it be not time travel. Please, let it be a very extensive hallucination of questionable nature.)_

"Hello, my good man," Jaskier started, planning to start with some small talk and get some sense of the situation. Hopefully he could also charm the innkeeper for a meal. Though, from the way the man frowned once he looked up and saw Jaskier, he can only hope the man wasn't familiar because he'd slept with the man's daughter or something. 

(Unless the man was one of his captor and his subconscious remembers his face even through the illusion? He doesn’t feel any _that_ alarm though, and surely his gut feeling would tell him _something,_ despite his questionable sense for survival.)

"Your room doesn't include breakfast, Bard. That's the deal," the man said without much fanfare. It was another familiar sentence. Nostalgic, even. Very straight to the point and without the unnecessary yelling or disdain, which is quite a nicer instance compared to most, if memory serves.

Though, also disappointing since he is quite hungry, now.

“Can I sing, at least? Try to earn my meal?” he asked. His lute right now might be sub-par, but he is quite confident in his skill to still be able to strum something good enough for the people’s ears. 

The man scoffed rudely, looking up and down at him. _Nostalgic,_ Jaskier thought again, aware how his outfit doesn’t really inspire much confidence in his skill. He looks like a baby bard, overconfident with no real song to sing, no real experience of the world to give anything real in his words. Back then, he took it as even more of a challenge to prove himself. Now, he’s had years of experience to see his own naïveté and ignorance of back then. Hell, he'd had students that were exactly like himself, at 18 years of age.

(...Memory, hallucination, _fuck_ , is there an information his captor was looking for, in his memory of decades past?)

“Sing, then. You may keep whatever they throw at you even, may it be coin or soup over your head.”

 _Ah, nostalgia_ , Jaskier thought again to himself wryly. And also somewhat concerning, because the theory he’s been sent back in time is starting to look more and more possible.

( _Why? How is time travel even possible?)_

Then again, if this is hallucination taken from his memory, of course every scene would feel nostalgic. But they're still not real. (And everything felt so _real.)_

Oh, well. He’s already decided to go along with whatever _this_ is. Besides, it’s been a while since he sang to his ‘adoring’ public, not since he set himself up in Oxenfurt where his audience were often his appreciative students or his equally appreciative peers. Even when he played in an inn near the school, he was adored even by name alone.

Surely, entertaining a room full of sad peasants could be a fun challenge even in this confusing times? Maybe he can even see how far this _hallucination_ stretches _._

( _Useless distraction, meaningless endeavor_ , he could already hear the growled protest. But honestly, he needs some kind of reprieve and figuring out magical illusion, or even _fucking time travel_ is not his fucking _forte,_ all right? He _needs_ his distraction before he can begin to figure out anything else.)

(Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?)

* * *

His fingers won’t play the way he wanted them to.

There’s a stiffness, a kind of slowness to his fingers, his wrists, that he was unfamiliar with. Techniques he used to do without thinking now played somewhat clumsily on the lute. Oh, he played well enough, but there is _something_ that felt like he wasn't playing as well as he _used to_. 

_Fuck._ He lost at least three decades of muscle memory, didn’t he? Along with the three decades worth of calluses made by three decades long of playing the lute.

Three decades of physical experience, the trained muscle. Doesn’t matter his brain still retained all his decades worth of knowledge, not when his hands couldn’t keep up.

Even his _voice_ —

Fuck. _Fuck._

This is honestly much more distressing than anything else happening to him. He really, _really_ hopes it’s all a convincing illusion and things will go back to normal once he found a way out.

(But, he could feel it, the way he simply physically couldn't keep up with what his brain _knows_. And, if hallucination affected his perception, there's no reason for it to affect the _physical._ )

As he continued his best to play, the theory that everything is simply an elaborate hallucination seems more and more unlikely. He despaired on what that would mean for him and the lack of solution presented in such a possibility.

* * *

In the end, he was pelted by bread and, well, he had his breakfast, at least. He was somewhat annoyed, but fuck it, he’d throw bread at himself, too. He had to relent to his oldest, easiest jig he could remember, where the lyrics cared more for rhymes than accuracy while his brain multitasked on pondering on his situation. As he sang, the memory of the three words growled at him in review came unbidden, and he _wondered_.

Bread in his trousers and breakfast secured, Jaskier packed his old, sad piece of wood masquerading as a lute and grumbled to himself. If this is really time travel, he would have to re-train the muscles he used for playing instruments and his singing. He felt like a clumsy baby throughout, even if he managed quite fine. Objectively, he knew he was still good, but playing felt uncomfortable _._ It was somewhat like putting on a pair of unfitting trousers.

He grumbled more, feeling frustrated at the situation. He took a bite of the hard bread still in his grip, mentally counting the ones he kept in his trousers and decided they could last him until he moved on to the next settlement. There is something about having bread in his pocket that speaks familiarity. Then again, being pelted by food was somewhat common in the beginning of his journey as a travelling Bard. People often had more regard for known names than actual talent.

_"You don't want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting."_

He laughed to himself at the memory, though he also felt the slight sting he tried very hard not to think about. There's still a shard stuck in his heart, he couldn't help it. Then, he turned around and looked up, just to see if it was worth trying again or he'll be more likely to get soup over his head this time, and his eyes fell to the darkened corner of the tavern. He didn’t even mean to, he wasn’t searching. His eyes just fell to that corner when he turned around.

There was a darkened figure, sitting in the unlit corner. He wondered now if it was _fate_ that guided his eyes there, to that hulking figure trying to blend into the shadows. His hair looked more grey in the shade, while his eyes were hidden away as he stared down to his (sad, _sad_ ) mug, letting his long hair curtain them away from view. The black armor he favored blended with the shadows, making him look both more inconspicuous and _less_ inconspicuous. His two blades conveniently hidden away from the room’s view, but he knew they would still be within the man's reach.

Jaskier saw when those golden eyes looked up, sweeping across the room, simply watching his surroundings. Those eyes swept past him without stopping or hesitating.

Unrecognized. Unnoticed. Simply another man in an establishment full of men.

Jaskier couldn’t help the way his heart raced, the way his hands started to sweat. The shard embedded deeper, drawing metaphorical blood this time as his memory of the mountain stuck to the forefront of his mind, even though it’s been _years_ since he had to get over it.

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”_

He wondered again _why, exactly, was I sent here, to this specific time, into this body?_

_“—one blessing—”_

He had died, didn’t he? It wasn't simply a nightmare, that he truly _died. Too real as a dream, too puzzling to simply be a dream._

 _(A glimpse of white hair, a blur of gold in his memory— Was_ he _truly_ _there? Or, was_ that _the dream?)_

And now he was returned in time, the decisive moment before he knew Geralt. _Before_ Geralt knew _him_.

(Before he walked all over the Witcher’s life, shoveling shit to his Path, shoving more _misery_ to his _miserable—)_

“— _take you off my hands!”_

“Oh…,” Jaskier breathed out softly. He then turned back around to his lute, hands gripping tight at the strap as he pulled it to his shoulder. He stared down at the abstract shape of the wood veins of the table, not truly looking at anything. His mind turned, contemplating, while his heart still raced.

A chance. A _choice._

If he truly was sent back in time, sent back to the past—

If this is really the past and he was truly given another chance—

( _Why did I die...?)_

_(Why am I back here?)_

_(...Why am I—)_

_"Oh...."_ he breathed out again, even softer now.

Well. It's not much of a choice now, is it?

**-TBC-**


	2. Turn Back Time (2)

_Well. It's not much of a choice now, is it?_

The thing is, Jaskier had about a decade to look back, to parse through their old interactions and nit-pick them through a new perspective. A decade is a long time, even if he didn’t spend said decade entirely obsessing about their relationship and how it ended. It’s a fucking long time to look past the anger, the hurt. It was certainly more than enough time to doubt and dissect through even the most minuscule moment, even question whether his memory was right, or he only thought it happened.

He’d admit it probably wasn’t the healthiest way to cope, but well, he couldn’t exactly control how his mind coped. At least it didn’t exactly fill up the entirety of his waking moment for the last 10 years. Being back in the university and keeping himself busy also helped to keep his mind off it. Still, he likely had thought of it more than what was healthy.

(The occasional drunken binge certainly wasn’t, anyway.)

Jaskier has always been good with emotion, this is a fact. He could always sense what others feel, give words to what was unsaid. He _knows_ people, the way Geralt knew his monsters. Emotion is something he understands best and had channelled into his words, his _songs._ However...

Sometimes, that _knowledge_ was his downfall. He was usually right, so sometimes he forgot he could be wrong, too. That for all he could give word to the unsaid words, perceive what others could be feeling, he wasn’t actually a mind reader. He was so sure of himself, so sure in what he perceived and saw, that sometimes he didn’t stop and _listen_ instead.

 _(“The thing about you, Jaskier, is that you feel so much. You’re so good at reading people but you failed to think that maybe,_ maybe, _you could misread or take a wrong conclusion_ . _Do you know how annoying that is?_ ”)

 _(“Sometimes, people just wanted someone to listen and feel like someone cared about what they actually said, which is something you seem incapable of doing, with how much you seem to love the sound of your own voice.”_ )

And, looking back, he couldn’t really remember the instance when he didn’t just put his words to what Geralt didn’t say and simply _listened_ . So sure he was right, thinking he was making it easier for Geralt, giving him an escape or a _reprieve_ from emotions he didn’t want to admit he had. Jaskier was proud, thinking he was the one that knew Geralt the most, that could read him best. Then, in his contemplation, he started to wonder how a man like Geralt perceive the things Jaskier did out of what he considered consideration.

He wondered if Geralt had truly felt that Jaskier didn’t care _._ That for 20 years, he didn’t _care_ enough for the Witcher to just shut up and _listen_.

 _(Jaskier was always about making things easier, acting first instead of waiting, rushing recklessly. He made light of heavy things for a moment of_ reprieve, _giving Geralt his excuses freely because he didn’t want to be a burden, make things_ harder—)

Geralt was always a friend to him. Despite his words, his grouchiness, Geralt was a _friend._ He was always kind and caring in his own way. _Chivalrous,_ so much more knightly than most actual knights Jaskier had seen _._ In those 20 years, despite Geralt’s attempt at creating distance, Jaskier never doubted there was some form of _fondness_ Geralt had for him. That was why, despite Geralt never saying they were friends _,_ he was always so _sure_ that was what they _were_.

_(Until the mountain. Until angry words that cut. Until Jaskier walked away and Geralt never looked back—)_

All he wanted was to make things easier for Geralt. Easier to get into towns, into villages. Easier to get contracts and get his payment. Easier to make a connection he struggled to let himself _want_ . Easier to leave situations he found uncomfortable. Jaskier just thought Geralt _deserved_ his rest.

He placed himself between Geralt and words, making himself be the bridge between Geralt and the world that doesn’t comprehend him and the words he didn’t say. He made so many songs about him, praises for the work people took for granted, so those that heard would know to appreciate him, his work and his deeds. Words were his _thing,_ after all. He thought he could be the voice to Geralt’s deeds if the Witcher wouldn’t voice them himself.

The coin was a plus, instead of the objective. His passion had always laid on the music itself instead of what he may gain after. It always has been, right after he saw how _good_ the Witcher was. But, in his contemplation, he wondered if Geralt knew that.

( _...Surely, he must. Had he?)_

_“I’m not your friend.”_

He wondered what Geralt was actually thinking then. At the time, he thought that was simply his unwillingness to bother with bonds, to connect with other people, untrusting of affection. A stubbornness that Jaskier simply teased and let go of. After the mountain, in his contemplation, he wondered if he meant it exactly as he said.

That he thought Jaskier didn’t really care for him as a friend. That Jaskier, by claiming that he did, was lying through his teeth to the Witcher’s face, and he simply didn’t care for it. That coin and protection were all Jaskier stayed around for, and by claiming it was more had been an insult.

(All his devotion, all his intention… How could the Witcher not _see_ ? For all his enhanced senses, how could he miss Jaskier’s sincerity? It wasn’t _fair_ _—)_

 _(“Am I_ your _friend?_ ” he wished he had asked.)

He’s had a decade to think back, contemplate every interaction they’ve had. He wondered if he should’ve been _better,_ if he could’ve said something else (or _not_ say? Should he have just, _shut up_?) 

For a decade, he blamed Geralt at times, also Yennefer and the blasted mountain. Then at other times, he would blame himself, and he wondered if it was too late—

 _(… Had he looked for Geralt? Did Geralt look for him? Did he ever_ _—it had been 10_ years _. Why would he… Ah, that part must truly be the dream, then.)_

And now, thirty years in the past, back to their very _first_ meeting. Whatever was going on, Jaskier still thought it was a _chance_. 

There’s no other choice, of course, but to approach Geralt and do everything all over again, even though he knew how it will end.

How it will hurt.

_(Well, there’s also a possibility this is all really just a hallucination. He’ll figure it out. It’s only been, what? Three hours since he woke up? Five?)_

So really, it wasn't a choice at all. Besides, technically he’s following the pattern of what had happened anyway, so it shouldn’t be too risky to either time or whatever hallucination was meant to do. Should be, anyway.

He inhaled a steadying breath and turned around again, letting his feet walk over the Witcher's table before he could overthink even more, heart in his throat and the shard digging somewhat deeper despite the rising feeling of _excitement_.

It's selfishness, he thinks. Whatever his justification was, Geralt did wish him gone. Walking away at this moment, granting the wish Geralt hasn’t yet made, would’ve been the selfless choice. Maybe it would’ve been the smart choice, even.

Jaskier never claimed to be a selfless person, though he will never _not_ claim himself brilliant. He has the advantage this time. He _knows_ Geralt. He’s had 20 years with the man, and he can just _know_ things this time. He can fit himself better, do the things that worked before and cast aside the things that didn’t. He’s _selfish._

Having Geralt see him without any kind of recognition already stings. So, even if somehow things go even worse than before, he thinks he still wanted Geralt to know who he is.

Once he was close enough to the Witcher’s table, a pair of golden eyes looked up. Jaskier was caught in an assessing gaze, absent of that glint of familiarity, and _oh_ , Jaskier seemed to have underestimated the pain. He didn’t realize it would hurt _this much_ when hit with that gaze straight on.

That curious furrow between his eyebrows, the frowny little frown that graced his lips, and the glare of that sun-gold eyes are so familiar while also doesn’t. After all, before, there’s always that twinkle Jaskier always liked to think as exasperated fondness. Now, there is only the wariness of meeting a stranger, something Jaskier had never seen directed at him since, well, now.

Jaskier started to think whatever was going on likely devised to drive him insane, because he was already feeling it.

 _All right,_ he thought determinedly. All he has to do is to go through the introduction, follow Geralt to the elves (maybe this time without the punch to the gut, he did not miss that), and hopefully, he’ll get the lute again and then, _hopefully,_ adventure!

Also, maybe really start figuring out what exactly had happened to him and why. That’s pretty important. Though, something about repeating his adventures with Geralt is making him kind of excited and giddy despite the persistent phantom heartache, and a little part of him was starting to care a lot less about whether this is a time travel thingy or not in the face of said prospect and went ' _Geralt! Adventure! Woo-hoo!’_ instead.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.” Well, that certainly came out way more excited than the first time around. Geralt’s glower intensified and his wariness also went up, understandably.

It was possible his excitement was showing on his face because Geralt’s eyebrows had twitched, and he looked more wary through the very stony glower ( _glower, ha! Oh, how he missed that surly face.)_ It was also possible he was grinning far too wide because there was also an almost imperceptibly leaning away, amusingly enough. He probably should lessen the grin. It won't do if he ended up looking shifty.

“I’m here to drink alone,” Geralt replied with the exact words in Jaskier’s memory. His voice was all deep and rumbly, matching his glower and just screamed intimidation and ‘leave me the fuck alone, _grr_ ’. Now that Jaskier knew Geralt _much_ better, he saw the smallest, teeny tiny hint of _shyness._ Anyway, he kind of wanted to coo.

_(See how good he can still read Geralt? Ten years he didn’t see the man, but he can still read him like a book! Yes! This will totally work!)_

Seriously, Jaskier really, _really_ missed this man. He wanted to jump over the table and like, squeeze his very broad shoulders with all his might. He doesn’t think he’ll get stabbed, but Geralt might run for the hills this time. Jaskier needed to be a little delicate _,_ so he got to stick with what worked the first time.

Now, what was it again he said next the first time?

“Good. Yeah, good,” Jaskier replied absently, mind turning on what to say next. Review, review, three words or less…

“So, any thoughts of my performance? I'll accept three words or less~," he sing-songed as he settled comfortably to the seat across the Witcher. He's pretty sure those weren't his exact words, but he thinks the sentiment is still the same. It's been decades. He couldn't seriously be expected to remember his own words said more than three decades ago.

The frowny face didn’t go frownier, but there was another glaring of eyes that could either mean ‘strange human that asks inconsequential questions, annoying,’ or ‘fucking fuck why is the human still talking, go the fuck away and give me back my fucking _peace_.’ 

Or he was seriously thinking about his answer and picked what he could compress into three words. Which are…

...Why is he still glowering and not saying—Oh, right! Bread in pants....

...Does he have to? Like, is that—Alright, maybe last time he needed the blunder to coax Geralt into pitying him enough to answer. Ah, this is going to be so embarrassing...

“Come on,” Jaskier coaxed, already mentally grimacing. “You don’t wanna keep a man with...bread,” Jaskier cringed as he gestured at down, “in his pants, waiting.”

Cringe. Oh Melitele, why. Jaskier could feel his face heating up already. How the hell did young him say it so shamelessly? Sure, he does have bread in his trousers, stuffed full for his lunch and supper, so at least that wasn’t a terrible euphemism and an actual, literal sentence.

Though, back then he probably did mean it a bit as a euphemism. He remembered being young and curious (and a tad in lust) of the dark brooding figure hiding in the corner of the tavern in Posada that had been the most appreciative of his talents among heckling patrons.

Young him was so _young_ , sweet Melitele. He’s getting first and second hand embarrassment just _remembering_ _—_

“...They don’t exist,” Geralt said at last. Jaskier was just slightly startled as the words brought him out of his cringe-trip, proving that it was pity for his awkward, younger self that the Witcher deigned to respond to him at all. Which kind of felt somewhat sad, if he thought about it. 

He also remembered those three words shaking him up, the first time around. True, they all came from his imagination and tall tales of folks, but also the library on Oxenfurt. At the time, his only window to the world had been those books, so he had believed them to be real. Still, even after he knew books could be wrong, some of those songs still would end up in his repertoire of songs at times. The light-hearted ones, the sultry ones, the ones in which the point was the story, rather than the details of the monster.

Eventually, he also tried to keep them minimal, since overtime he could understand why Geralt was so adamant about keeping his details right, when it comes to describing the monster. Some of the more gullible people would actually take his songs as is and likely to kill themselves, underestimating monsters based on his songs. Even more so since people knew him as the bard that follows a Witcher around, that means his songs had a bit more credentials to them than most bards. That certainly had been an eye-opener that gave Jaskier a lot of complicated feelings. 

So, even though it deviated from the past, he laughed in response. 

“Yeah, they really don’t exist, do they?” he said rhetorically between laughter. How sheltered his younger self hand been, while believing he was different from the nobles that never left their estate. He had believed himself to be full of knowledge, worldly and otherwise, cocky because he had the natural ability to read people, while misreading the one person he considered closest to him, who he claimed as his best friend.

Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed, though there wasn’t any other change in expression. He seemed caught between confusion and slight indignation, perhaps at Jaskier for knowingly spreading misinformation. It always annoyed Geralt, saying misinformation like that made his job harder.

“So, you know,” Geralt said, flat and unimpressed already. Jaskier huffed, feeling a little indignant himself.

“Well, not until now, you mysterious man,” it wasn’t even a lie. Before he woke up this morning, 18 years old Jaskier knew fuck all about the creatures he sang. “Give a poor bard a break, Witcher. I wasn’t the one whose livelihood depends on having complete encyclopedic monster-knowledge.”

Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed even further, deepening the lines of his frown. “You know who I am.”

Oops. Is this the part? How did he hear of Geralt again, at this time? Right, the Blaviken horror story. The Butcher of Blaviken, the white death with silver-white hair and devil’s yellow eyes, the bloodthirsty Witcher who killed half the town before what was left of the villagers banded together to drive the Witcher out of town, a Witcher with the name of Geralt of Rivia.

Jaskier grinned brightly, knowing with surety now how much of that story was hogwash, misinformation spread by a nasty mage who pretended to be a saint among the townsfolk. At least Yennefer doesn’t really pretend to be anything but herself, nasty side and all. Not that she was any better, with her brainwash thingy. He always had a particular dislike for those mind-altering magic kind.

(Is it unfair of him that he still hates her, even when he hasn’t technically met her yet?)

“A pair of gorgeous golden eyes and two big, scary swords. You’re obviously a Witcher. Then the white hair and handsome face, you are _Geralt_ , of _Rivia_.”

He’s outright flirting now, even if he put some dramatics in saying Geralt's name, just because. Ha, it’s not like he’s got anything to lose. Geralt had to know anyway that he was attracted to the Witcher, even from the first time they met, Witcher nose and all. Nothing should change just because now he’s showing it openly. Right?

(The words were already said anyway. Fuck it. Can’t be worse than saying ‘bread in his pants’.)

Then, he noticed the sudden shush in the tavern. When he glanced, he saw people are looking at their table. At Geralt, to be exact. In their eyes, he saw the familiar look of curiosity, and a lot of disgust and fear. 

Right. He’ll have to work on reintroducing the White Wolf to the continent again. Fun.

Jaskier blinked and the next second, Geralt already slides out of his seat and stood up. Jaskier immediately tried to follow, feeling a bit of anticipation because there was supposed to be someone calling for a con—

“Witcher!” someone called, standing up. Jaskier could vaguely remember him, and he silently thanked whatever force is running this current world that Jaskier didn’t mess shit up by improvising as much as he did. Though, his assurance that Geralt would do the bloody work did hit him a bit wrong this time.

Geralt stopped, turned, listened, and accepted the heavy bag of coin he will later relinquish to the Elves. He now saw the somewhat reluctant expression on his face, likely already knowing it was no ‘devil’ at all even as he haggled for a higher amount of coin. Everything happened just like the first time it happened. Now, all Jaskier have to do is stick to the Witcher like a stubborn fungus and hope the rest will turn out the same too.

Especially the lute. He _needs_ that lute, which he has been with for longer than half of his life.

He really, _really_ hopes the rest will turn out the same.

* * *

This time he managed to not get punched in the gut, thank _god._ Apparently, incessant flirting is a much lesser offense than calling him the ‘Butcher of Blaviken’. Though, he still wasn’t allowed to touch Roach and had to walk alongside the Witcher as he rides his horse. 

Ah, Roach. He missed the old girl. Or young girl, now? He’s a bit sad to have lost all the rapport he managed to build with her from years of sneaking her treats, but hey, now he knows exactly what Roach likes! She’ll like him again in no time.

His boots are really not for walking on rough terrains like this, damn it. But, a pair of good and stylish travelling boots are far too expensive for his current budget, while the cheap ones just aren’t worth the investment, even if he deigned to wear something so boring-looking. At least he could steal glances up at the little, microscopic changes of the Witcher expression as Jaskier talked, and it was still pretty fun riling the Witcher up, even if it’s now devoid the usual easy humor of a well-known annoyance.

Ah, Jaskier just made himself sad again. He probably should stop thinking about that for now.

“Go away,” Geralt said when Jaskier paused his chattering, as if Jaskier is a particularly precocious child. It was still all talk and no heat, really. Jaskier knew how Geralt sounded when he really, _really,_ wanted someone to _go away_ (besides at the Mountain, that was _—_ that was a special kind of _'go away'),_ so he happily and easily ignored it as he kept on talking.

“Honestly, White Wolf is a much better moniker for you. White hair, Wolf medallion. Really, it sticks more to your image, more on-point, wouldn’t you say? Why is there no one calling you a White Wolf, anyway? That’s like, the simplest moniker anyone could come up with!”

“Butcher is right.”

“Right. Why don’t you try saying that with more pride, maybe I’ll believe you,” Jaskier scoffed before he could think about what he said. Geralt frowned and glanced down at Jaskier, expression somewhat unreadable, even to someone who had seen the Witchers’ eyebrow twitches and glares and frowns, had even numbered them in his mental list of ‘Jaskier’s List of Geralt-Specific Expressions and How to Read Them’ in the course of the two decades he knew the man.

“Of course, there’s also a matter of your perfectly sunny disposition,” Jaskier continued, even as his brain was wondering if there was something wrong with what he said. Did he say something he’s not supposed to know yet? But, he's quite sure there's nobody in the Continent that haven’t heard about the Butcher thing! “I’m very into the whole brooding, mysterious lone wolf thing you got going on. But you have to know that in the actual wild, a lone wolf is a dead wolf, yes? We should—”

Geralt suddely stopped and climbed down Roach, which forced Jaskier to stop too and notice they have arrived at the spot where the ‘Devil’ was said to roam. 

Dol Blathanna. _The Valley of Flowers_.

At the time, he was too young to really see it, still believing the Elves had given this place away freely, _bequeathing_ it for the humans while they left to their _golden palaces_. Now, well…

He glanced back at Geralt, seing that he already finished tying up Roach’s reins to a tree and started to move. He quickly went to follow.

“What are we looking for?” he asked, trailing behind Geralt as he went through the somewhat familiar path. 

“Blessed silence.”

...Huh. 

_“Blessed silence.”_

_“I just want some peace!”_

_“If life could give me one blessing_ _—_ _”_

It’s not really a new information, he _knows_ this. But to relive this again, to hear this, from the start of their acquaintance, as if he doesn’t already remember, that’s—

Oh, wow. It— _whoa_ , that still stings something fierce.

“Yeah, I don’t really go for that,” Jaskier said in a harder tone than he meant to. He actually meant to go for levity, but well. Kind of hard for that right now.

He saw Geralt glance back at him, eyebrows furrowed again, likely a little confused at his sudden change of tone. After all, for him, Jaskier is just an annoying pest bothering him from doing his job. They just met. Meanwhile, Jaskier already saw how this is merely the beginning marker of their friend— _acquintanceship,_ and a taste of how their next 20 years will go. 

...Wow, why is he doing this, again?

“Anyway, Devils. Do they actually exist?” Jaskier asked, just for something to say and his attempt to at least keep to the ‘script’, also to change the subject. “Do they? Don’t they? Does—”

“Devils don’t exist,” Geralt growled out, not looking at Jaskier anymore. Instead, he was focused at their surrounding, probably sniffing for the Sylvan’s smell or looking for tracks with his super Witcher senses.

“Right,” Jaskier replied absently, making a show of looking around. If he remembers right, the Sylvan should appear around _there,_ not that he can really see anything beyond the bushes, though. “So, uh, what are we doing then?” he added.

“Sometimes there’s monsters, sometimes there’s money. Rarely both. That’s the life.”

Jaskier blinked. The first time, he kind of ignored this since he didn’t really understand what Geralt meant, simply taking it as part of Geralt’s gloomy outlook of life, but now he kind of wondered if this was a cautionary warning for him. 

“That’s—” he started, but then Geralt suddenly lurched aside, cursing, and got hit on his forehead by a small, pebble-like projectile as he tried to dodge. It’s probably because he dodged that the projectile hit his harder-than-rock forehead instead of his squishy golden eyes, now that he saw it again.

He looked up to where the projectile came from, feeling a somewhat misplaced pride that he remembered right about where the Sylvan would appear. 

“Uh, Geralt,” he called out as the shadow of the Sylvan moved. “That really does look like a Devil.”

He probably should sound a bit more in awe, or have a little more fear, but he also already knows how this will go and knows very well how fine he will be. 

Besides, just because he knows what’s going to happen, that doesn’t make him suddenly having the speed to dodge the tiny cannonball heading straight at him before his vision turned black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason this chapter is tiring to write, and Jaskier's mind feels so chaotic here. Anyway, please tell me what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: I may have to edit some parts later since I'm writing this as I go.


End file.
